


Wild Thing

by Malind



Category: Tarzan - Edgar Rice Burroughs, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Coincidences, Crossover, Death, Father/Son Incest, Grief/Mourning, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 18:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7856830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malind/pseuds/Malind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last place Thranduil wants to be is on a boat.  And for good reasons.  A crossover where Legolas is, well, Tarzan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Thing

It wasn’t so much the continuous cracks of thunder and the merciless water slamming against wood and metal, nor the feeling as if the ship was tumbling underneath his feet, nor the people weeping behind the thin walls and floorboards while the sailors shouted outside on the deck, that made bile rise in the king's throat. None of that horror came even close to eclipsing the true dread he felt.

After all, King Thranduil had already been on death’s doorstep, repeatedly, and this present moment wasn't death. Not yet anyway.

No, true horror had happened twenty-two years before this night when a storm just like this one had sunk their ship, claiming the lives of so many. So many deaths bloodied his hands, his soul, neither of which, he knew, would ever come clean again.

Then, days later, death's doorstep had also taken his wife, the Queen. The sudden, aberrant sickness had seeped her dry and left a husk of a woman he could barely recognize.

Not even a month later, that same doorstep had then taken his only child--a boy who hadn’t learned to walk yet--as Thranduil had faced death once again in the form of a raging, sinuous bulk of pure animistic hate.

And he'd regretfully survived all of it. The old scars marring his skin proved that fact.

With water washing over his bare feet, sitting on a plush couch that threatened a difficult time if he tried to stand even without the merciless waves, Thranduil realized he’d forgotten over the course of two decades just how cold and wet death’s doorstep could be. And perhaps that was why he was on the boat.

One would think though that he’d have been capable of learning his lesson the first time. In fact, he’d thought he had.

He wasn’t supposed to be on a ship. He’d sworn he’d never step foot on one again. Would never, ever come near the land they were now passing. But he had taken this voyage for a peace treaty he barely cared about. There'd been no real war-risk between them, after all. He'd only barely cared about it because of the nonstop fuzzy phone calls from Elrond that had inadvertently pushed him into this hell. Surely that guy had just been dying to play with that new invention that barely a soul had heard of yet, let alone owned.

...And a sure promise of death over a peace treaty? Someone out there had to be laughing.

A side door burst open and someone practically flung themselves to the floor with a particularly great heave of the creaking wood and metal. From the gasp and swear, Thranduil knew who it was despite the comparably blinding light. The lamp in Galion's hand would have kept going too if the man hadn’t had such a tight grip on it. Thranduil shoved at the couch, trying to stand, despite being almost blinded, but got tossed back into the couch.

When his servant managed to right himself, the king eyed his nephew on the couch on the other side of the room, before turning his attention back to his servant, and hissed, “Put out that thing, you fool. You'll burn up the ship before the water takes us.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Galion said, panting, “Forgive me.” He turned down the wick and then blew into the top, plunging the three men back into darkness.

Thranduil blinked a few times, trying to adjust his vision before looking out the windows that barely allowed any light through with the thrashing storm. The boat rocked violently again. Stumbling feet and a crash told the king the other man had just met a wall. The secondary crash, the shattering of glass, and a colorful string of curses, all of those things said it’d been a good idea to put out the flame.

After blowing out a breath through teeth, Thranduil asked, “Did you have something to tell me?”

“No, no,” his servant muttered, edging closer until Thranduil felt a hand on his shoulder which brought with it the stale scent of alcohol. Galion carefully edged around him and then more or less collapsed onto the couch that had luckily been bolted to the floor. After a few moments, the man drawled out, “Oh God, I don’t know what’s worse, getting black and blue while getting tossed around or just sitting down.”

The king huffed humorlessly and buried his face in his hands, unsure whether to be pleased and annoyed at the doubling of company. Clothes rustled next to him. Metal ground against metal. Some heavy, audible swallows drifted over the breaking waves pounding the wood before several rattling coughs pierced his ears.

“You’ll make yourself ill drinking like that right now.”

“I doubt even whiskey could make this any worse, my Lord.” Galion stretched out his legs and the pressed the small canteen to the sleeve of Thranduil’s perfectly tailored knee-length coat.

The younger man eyed the vaguely shining silver metal, sighed, and took the thing, drinking the last few swallows, the alcohol scalding his throat, not bothering to care his servant’s lips had touched it. A strong hand twisted the top back on that had been hanging by a chain and then put the canteen down between them.

“This is not how I pictured my death,” his servant sighed out, “I pictured it with a lot more alcohol. And maybe a woman or two who use me for their own perverted devices. Not...”

Thranduil smirked despite himself. “Not here with me?”

“No… No. Definitely not.” He could hear the smile in the other man’s voice. “Perhaps, though, my Lord… Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad… I mean… You’d get to see them again.”

Every part of the king tensed with those drunken, loose final words. But he also knew the truth of them. He’d thought them himself. For years. Never mind that moment. And so he whispered, “Yes, I would...”

“I hope… I hope you’ll forgive yourself now before it’s too late. God wants nothing to do with your self-pity.”

Thranduil turned his head and tried to stare at the man in the darkness, shocked to the core by what had been said, words no one had dared to speak to him over the course of twenty-two years. But nothing more was said. And with the way Galion rolled about with the waves, the king assumed he’d passed out.

Passed out or no, now left to his own devices, drowning in too much agony, loathing, and fear, Thranduil thrust himself off the couch, barely noticing the considerable effort it took, stumbled in the direction of the doorway, found the brass knob after a bit of groping, and then took a step outside. Pelting rain, wind, and waves pounded him. He had to hold the door frame or risk getting thrust to the floor. The grip barely helped as he nearly tripped over his feet several times just standing there.

The expanse of the ship's deck seemed small with the waves crashing over the sides. With the sails down and everything secured the best it could be, there was no one visible in the darkness. It was too dangerous to be on deck. He shouldn't have been, and he fully realized that when a wave that felt like a brick wall landed on top of him, slamming him down before dragging him fifteen feet to the side, slamming him again against the outside wall that was the only thing keeping him from tumbling into the ocean.

When his lungs felt like they'd burst, the water receded, and left a sprawling mess of a man on the ground, his long hair tangles under his hands. A solid lump of flesh landed on him, then pulled at him, back towards what he assumed was the direction of the cabin.

"Uncle, move! Get back inside!"

Already panicking with the realization of who'd followed him, Thranduil shouted back, shoving at the young man, "William, get back inside!"

The hands continued to yank on his expensive clothing so harshly, he was sure it was ripping but couldn’t hear anything over the waves. After another drenching wave, he shoved at the man whose mother had put him under his charge. She'd wanted him to get out and see the world. She surely hadn't wanted him to die in the process.

With another shove, while he stumbled forward, the king shouted, "Go! Now!"

Then the ground shifted, more so than it had the whole night. In fact, it kept shifting until both men were literally pinned to the outer wall. Then he was underneath freezing water that drew out his body heat so quickly. He clawed at the younger man, trying to keep his sudden grip on him, trying to kick away from the boat and to the surface. The horrible sounds of snapping wood and metal vibrated the water. William was a dead weight dragging them down, but he wasn't about to let him go. A few moments later his head broke the surface.

Something hard slammed into his back, making him call out uselessly into the suddenly barren water, barren of his ship and all on board. He twisted around and caught onto what had hit him, a piece of lumber that had broken free. He heaved his young charge over it, trying to keep his head out of the water.

Even though the waves pounded mercilessly, Thranduil still strained to listen for the sounds of voices. But he didn't hear a single one. He didn't hear anything except for water for far too many hours, in fact, with William unconscious with a huge gash on the side of his head.

And then, the king saw a beach that was too horribly familiar. He even saw the makeshift home in the distant trees.

And he knew, after twenty-two years, he was finally home. After all, home is where the heart is.


End file.
